


Seven Tears

by katineto (mistalagan)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Selkies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22170205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistalagan/pseuds/katineto
Summary: To summon the sealfolk, one must only shed seven tears into the saltwater of their home, and they will surely come.Viktor is a mage, ringed and collared: one of the best. But there's always been something missing, and it's only when he meets a mysterious young man near his childhood home that he begins to realize what it is.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 34
Kudos: 62
Collections: Yuri!!! on Ice Secret Skater 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morgen32](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgen32/gifts).



> This is a gift for Morgen (aka huoreart) for the YOI Secret Skater Exchange! Thank you so much for your patience, and I only ask for a little more as I post in chapters. I hope you like the story—happy holidays!

Alcohol might have made the cold night warm, but Viktor has foregone both wine and cloak. The wind slices through his finely made shirt as if it weren’t there. Funny, how both the cheapest and most expensive materials guard little against the weather.

This city has changed since he was a boy running wild in the streets, before Yakov found him. Once upon a time, he could close his eyes and navigate the streets by smell and memory alone, never tripping on a rotten pallet or falling into an open drain or so much as tangling a strand of his long hair. Now, his hair is short and so is his memory. The docks are built up, the buildings towering and clean and shiny. The flea market by the western wall was cleared out years ago. Few working ships anchor in the waters here, and those that do make their money offering services to tourists.

When he was cold as a child, he warmed himself with conjured fire, instinctive and easy as breathing. Tonight, if he wanted, he could heat not just himself but the whole city. Yet his skills are a gift, not to be squandered on personal comforts: even now he remembers the sharp clack of Lilia’s cane on a tiled floor and the sudden grip of shivering cold inflicted on him for unnecessary, self-indulgent magic.

(He could use his gifts to heat the whole city, but that is not what they want him for.)

He passes the last pier, where the paved walkway ends and sand begins. A few hundred yards along the beach, as the ground begins to rise up into jagged rocks, a sign is jammed into the ground: _No Trespassing_ , it reads, _Dangerous Currents. Rogue Waves._

There is an invisible perimeter around the beach, just past the sign, falling in his half-sight like a curtain. Viktor parts it. Easy. Self-indulgent.

The rocks are indeed dangerous. Before they put the signs up, some dozens of people were swept away every year. Viktor knew to avoid them as a boy, and also never did. Who would have looked for him then? He’d not even have been a statistic.

There used to be an outcropping, a stack of stone at the far end of the chain, from which one could see the whole city and the whole ocean—if they could reach it, balancing along a thin ledge of ocean-smoothed and wave-wetted rock, then clambering up the face of it with tiny hands, then gathering the courage to stand. When Viktor reaches the place where it once was, though, only a short, sheared-off piece of it remains, and the rocky path out to it is gone.

He sits where he is instead, staring out at the sea.

After a while, he begins to cry. Sometimes this happens.

He lets himself do it, stone-faced, steadily breathing, then when he is done swipes the tears away with one hand. He flicks them away into the ocean. He tilts his head up: there are no stars.

“Where is your cloak?”

It’s only the strength of long practice that keeps him from throwing up a wall of ice: he flinches back just the same. He’d heard nothing, felt nothing, smelt nothing, but here is someone beside him. He looks over in shock, then looks away just as quickly, flushing.

The young omega is entirely nude.

“Where is yours?!” he squawks. Lilia would have slapped him.

“I have mine.” A hand—the omega’s gotten closer, almost silently—proffers up a garment to the edge of Viktor’s sight, something dark and sleek.

“Well, put it on,” Viktor sputters.

“…if you’d like.”

When Viktor turns back towards the omega, he’s disappeared. Viktor frowns. “Hey. Hey!” He scrambles to his feet, looking around quickly. He’s nowhere to be seen—but if he’d fallen in, wouldn’t have Viktor heard the splash?

He peers down into the water anyway, with eyes and half-sight, reaching out for heat signatures. The water blocks his eyesight, though, and muddles the rest. He feels just one warm-blooded thing: thinks for a brief moment he’s found the man, but the shape is wrong, and when it surfaces briefly it’s only an animal after all.

—

The next time they meet, Viktor is clothed quite normally for the weather—cloak and all—and the omega is still nude.

Viktor clears his throat and looks away.

“Is this better?” The man’s chest is still bare, but he’s draped his cloak—and what a funny one it is, heavy looking, mttled—over his lap and legs.

“It’s better,” Viktor allows, and turns to face him. His hair is damp and dark against the night sky, and his eyes are dark, and his teeth when he speaks shine white.

“Where’s your cloak?” he repeats, and Viktor huffs in laughter, for lack of a better response.

“Right here,” he replies, tugging on it. “What’s your name?”

Maybe it’s his imagination, but the man almost seems upset. “…Yuuri,” he says after a pause, and proffers his wrist.

Viktor leans down to sniff it politely. He smells of salt, seaweed, a funny sort of musk, and something indescribably sweet. Viktor lingers a moment too long before lifting his head and offering his own wrist.

The omega—Yuuri—smiles when he is done. “Really, though, where’s your cloak?”

Viktor offers a half-smile back. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

Yuuri opens his mouth, closes it, and Viktor can’t quite parse the look of concern on his face. “Right,” he says at last. “I see.”

“I’m perfectly warm.”

“I know,” Yuuri says, as if Viktor is the one who’s said something strange.

—

Viktor can’t get Yuuri, or his scent, out of his mind. There’s something familiar about the smell, as if it’s something he’s forgotten but once loved, and Viktor can’t for the life of him place it. It’s terribly unlike him to be mooning over some strange omega, though, and _strange_ is certainly the word to describe him.

The next time they meet, Viktor has pamphlets. Yuuri looks them over with a bemused grin, and says, “Thank you.”

“Just in case,” he says awkwardly.

“I’m happy where I am.” Yuuri shifts, stretching. The cloak nearly slips off his lap, and Viktor looks up at the stars.

“Naked on a rock?”

“You should try it,” Yuuri says, “Before you judge.”

“Maybe when it’s warmer.”

Yuuri reaches out one hand, delicately, and trails it along Viktor’s arm. From his touch, a patch of warmth grows, wraps its way around Viktor’s body. “You shouldn’t ever be cold.”

Viktor inhales. “You’re a—“ he’s unregistered, he must be, with no rings nor collar, and Viktor’s never heard of him before—

Yuuri shrugs. “A what?”

He lets out a long hiss of breath. “Nothing,” he says. “Nothing.”

—

Two weeks later, Viktor’s business in the city is done, and the governor throws a party on his last night in town. He’s been going to see Yuuri every night—he forgot to say goodbye. Then again, perhaps he’s been intruding on Yuuri’s private space for two weeks, and the other was too polite to say so and will be relieved to see him go.

(So many people, the governor included, are relieved to see him go).

Viktor is irritated by his oversight, though, and prepared to be quite bored. When he arrives to the party, though, he prevents his jaw from dropping open only by clenching it tight.

Yuuri is dressed, this time, in a sleek dark blue, his dark cloak wrapped like a mantle over his shoulders. Wherever he goes, people turn to scent him, and stare openly. He barely pauses for them, though, looking around the room as if for someone in particular. When he spots Viktor, a broad smile brightens his face.

“I found you,” Yuuri smiles, having parted the crowd of people like an oar through the sea.

“You did,” Viktor says, dazedly. He flicks his eyes down to Yuuri’s neck—no, no collar, and no jewelry on his wrists or hands either. He can’t have an official invite. Unless he’s the child of some wealthy local? But his clothes—oh, they fit him perfectly, hug his body as if he were still perched damp and naked on a rock, but they’re an old style and largely unadorned. No wealthy scion would wear something as simple to an event such as this. “How?”

“The same way you found me, of course,” Yuuri says, and steps back, offering out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

Viktor should, in a very particular order, greet the governor and the rest of a short list of important people; make himself available for those who are slightly less important; drink a single flute of champagne, slowly; and perhaps even ask Yuuri to clarify his statement.

Instead, he dances. Yakov will be scandalized, Lilia upset. He catches a glimpse of flyaway blond hair—and yes, underneath a furious face, little Yura having to bear the brunt of the socializing.

Yuuri is very, very good at dancing. Viktor has never felt so light.

They sway together, later in the evening, Yuuri’s head tilted down against Viktor’s shoulder. “Viktor,” he murmurs, “I’ll find it for you.”

“Viktor!” comes the bellow, at last, at the end of the song. Yakov’s face is purple: eight or nine on the usual scale, Viktor surmises. “Viktor, you will come greet Lord Leroy,” Yakov hisses, with barely a glance to Yuuri—a glance that turns into a second look, and the puce of his skin fades into something paler. Yuuri stares back, silent, eyes dark.

“Viktor, come,” Yakov shakes himself, and grasps Viktor’s wrist to pull him away.


	2. Chapter 2

The housemaster’s grip on Viktor’s wrist is tight but not bruising as he marches the boy into his tiny office. “There you are!” he’d said with some uncharacteristic relief: Viktor has never before had the experience of being waited for, nor of being in trouble for going missing. He quails in the man’s grip, though, because he has of course heard the rumors of what goes on behind the narrow black door.

Inside, the housemaster lets go and ushers Viktor forward with a hand on his back instead. The office barely has room for a single adult and one child, but here is a third person, a broad-shouldered, frowning man dressed in fine clothes like a ship’s officer. His neck is adorned with a dull grey collar, his hands heavy with gold and silver rings. After a period of thick silence, he reaches one of those hands down to Viktor, proffering up his wrist. “Hello,” he rasps, in a deep, rough voice.

Viktor presses back against the housemaster’s palm, staring wide-eyed at this stranger.

The other children sometimes dream of adoption, or re-adoption: their long-lost parent or estranged uncle come to find them, a mysterious and wealthy relative in sudden need of an heir. Otherwise, they aim to get work: on a ship, if they’re lucky, to find adventure and riches on the seas, or even better as an assistant in a kitchen or storehouse or shop. But Viktor is happy running free in the city, and besides he knows from the other children that he is strange and would not be chosen by anyone, anyway.

Maybe this man thinks that Viktor stole from him, and wants repayment for the slight. Maybe he’s a child-eater, who fools adults into thinking he isn’t a monster, with sharp teeth and bloody claws. Maybe he’s a mine overseer who wants a skinny, light boy to crawl through narrow pits in the dark, dawn to dusk, and never come out…

(Viktor isn’t scared of the dark. He likes the dark. But he is scared of small spaces, narrow confines, and the warm heavy earth. He is scared of being trapped.)

The housemaster whaps Viktor upside the back of the head, and Viktor slowly reaches out to touch the stranger’s hand. It’s warm. He doesn’t move closer, but he does sniff, a little. The man doesn’t smell like rock and sulfur, like a miner, or like metallic blood. Instead, he smells a little bit like fire, and a little bit like snow, and salty like seaweed.

“Does he speak?” the man growls.

The housemaster shrugs. “He can.”

“Does he conjure?”

“I’ve seen him do it,” this with disdain.

“Good.” The stranger crouches, still holding onto Viktor’s hand—more lightly than he might have expected. His face is lower than Viktor’s now, and the boy is struck by the unsettling feeling of being taller than an adult. He turns Viktor’s hand over, so his palm is facing up, and tugs down on it before letting go. “Stay there.”

Viktor wants to snatch his hand back, but holds it there, trembling. The air around him grows chilly. The stranger flicks his eyes up, and briefly smiles.

The man breathes in, and as he exhales, a perfect flame appears in the middle of his left palm. He lifts it towards Viktor’s, who squeaks, making a fist and curling back against the unyielding presence of the housemaster. The stranger grunts. He reaches out with his right hand and grasps Viktor’s again, prizing the fingers open with a thumb. “This won’t hurt,” he says, before rolling the drop of fire into Viktor’s palm.

It burns there for a few bright, terrifying seconds before Viktor closes his fingers again, and it vanishes. The stranger settles back, looks up at the housemaster. “Good. I’ll take him. Draw up the papers.”

When the housemaster steps over to his overloaded desk, Viktor stays where he is, staring at the stranger’s hands.

“You like the rings, boy?”

Viktor shakes his head.

“You like the fire, then?”

Viktor shrugs. He spreads his fingers, looking down at the smooth, scarred tissue between each pair, and then looks back at the man’s hands. They’re the same, under all the finery. Someone once took a knife to this man, cutting up nearly to the largest knuckle of each finger, leaving behind the evidence in ragged lumps of twisted skin, worse even than Viktor’s.

“Oh,” he says, softly, and spreads his fingers, too. “What’s your name?”

“Viktor,” he whispers.

“My name is Yakov. It is very nice to meet you, Viktor. I am going to take you to learn how to conjure, and I think you will do very well.”

“Are—are there other people like me there?” Viktor blurts out, still in a rushed whisper.

Yakov is quiet. “Not quite like you,” he says, at last, “not quite.” Then, he rises, abruptly. “The boy’s possessions, too, if you will.”

Viktor is struck, suddenly, looking up at the two—that this man, Yakov, who is like Viktor, is the one with power here, and the housemaster with none. That his conjuration, at least, and the rings and collar, and the clothing, make him someone to be feared. Respected.

“Yulia will pack up a bag,” the housemaster says, handing over a thin piece of paper, and being handed in turn a small pile of coins. “He’s not got much.”

“Anything he does have. Anything he came with,” Yakov says. “ _Anything._ ”

—

Viktor has never been on a train before. He stares in fascination out the window as the scenes fade from city to farm to empty, wild land. He clutches onto his seat. His hands are clean; the rest of him is clean, too. Yakov had insisted, and had dressed him in nice clothing, almost as nice as Yakov’s.

Viktor is still a little afraid that he might be eaten, and he was a little sad when he was told that they would be leaving the city, and the docks, and the seaside. But besides the train and the bath and the clothes Yakov has also fed him, with the kind of baked bun that the other children sometimes are lucky enough to steal and not share with Viktor, and with the kind of baked fish that Viktor never even gets scraps of, and even if it’s just to fatten him up so that he’s tastier he’s never been so taken care of in his life.

“I’m not going to be your father,” Yakov had warned, “And Lilia is not your mother. And the other children there are not your brothers and sisters.”

Viktor has never had any of those things and he does not care. He cares more that he will have to wear shoes, and cut his hair, and is only allowed to conjure when he’s told to. But for now, his excitement overshadows these concerns. He’s going to learn to read, so even if he decides to run away and come back to the city he could maybe get work as a shopkeep’s assistant. He’s going to have nice clothes and if he is good, Yakov says, he will even get jewelry as if he were some sort of prince.

He imagines going back to the house and having all the other children see him, having them be jealous and maybe even a little afraid. Wouldn’t that be something? He could walk down the streets like he’s supposed to be there, and the shopkeeps wouldn’t keep a close eye on him—except to marvel at his riches. He could be the kind of person who other people smile at.

He smiles at the thought himself as the sun goes down outside the window, and he settles back into the train seat with his eyes closed tight.

It’s just a little cold, though not as cold as the city. But Viktor is never cold, because he can always warm himself up, instinctively and automatically.

The warmth goes away, sudden and shocking, and his eyes snap open.

“Don’t do that,” Yakov tells him, face shadowed. “Didn’t I tell you? No conjuration, unless you’re told.”

It’s not even conjuration, Viktor thinks with a stubborn frown. He’s just cold and doesn’t want to be.

Yakov sighs, and stands up. He rifles around for something on a shelf, far above where Viktor can reach, and tosses it at him. It’s a blanket. Viktor clutches at it.

“Don’t sulk, either.”

Yakov can tell him not to sulk all he wants, but as Viktor brings his knees up and tucks himself into the corner of the seat he’s pouting. The blanket is warm, but really it’s too warm, and it’s heavy and scratchy, and he doesn’t understand why he can’t just do it himself. It’s not fair.

But when he’s older, he thinks, nobody—not even Yakov—will be able to tell him what to do.

**Author's Note:**

> [I reserve the right to add tags and/or upgrade the rating for later chapters. Major archive warnings will remain as originally tagged.]
> 
> [Please let me know if you notice any typos!]


End file.
